The Relentless Advance of the Gender-Benders
Whatever Happened to Straight Fucking?
This strange aspect of anthropology first bothered me in the 1990s, when a young man went to Court in California – where else? – because he wanted to marry his dog. And yes, it was definitely his dog, not a bitch. It was about this time that I and no doubt many others started wondering, for that matter, whatever happened to straight fucking in Hollywood. Were the increasingly unanchored morals of Hollywood having a contagious and queer effect in the wider population, or was marrying your dog itself a contagion, a human form of rabies, as in going the other way, up a blind alley, as it were.
The latest bout of this contagion has hit the UK, where the Scots have legalised gay marriage despite a 64% anti-vote, as the tyranny of the minorities sweeps aside the majority and normal democratic, and moral, conventions. (I have always harboured quiet doubts about the Scots, wearing skirts, no underpants and tossing their cabers for fun in public). In England, meanwhile, the heterosexual Prime Minister, and father of three and cheer-leader of the Conservative Party no less, is determined to enforce the presumed right of Homosexuals to marry in church, a policy not enunciated in the last Conservative Manifesto any more than it isn’t in the Bible.
As per usual, the English have been misled by their elected ones and have not been consulted. The greater part of his party’s rapidly declining membership see it as a further stab at the heart of the essential dignity of the church. That this is a policy that has been thrust up his blind side by his Coalition partners, the Lib-Dem bum-blasters, whose credo is what I’ve got is mine and what you’ve got is mine also, which all-inclusive doctrine doesn’t end on the outside of your bum, adds momentum to the notion that Cameron has lost his balls as well and has been well and truly Clegged over. There’s no stopping the nonsense, it seems, of the believers in the new doctrine of anal birth. It’s all about as daft as subsidising a Don Quixote wind-farm that can never make money, if you ask me.
Meanwhile, the Dean of St. Albans, Dr. Jeffrey John, a mance of a fruit if ever there was one, has accused the church of hypocrisy, and said “it doesn’t speak with integrity on this issue and should not be listened to”. He continued: “if a homosexual couple invite God into their relationship” - as queer une ménage-a-trois as can be imagined - “then of course he will bless you and sustain your love”, as in ‘of course helping you to keep it up forever, and ever, whirl’d without end, Ah men!’ The mind boggles at the scene as imagined by this Godless Dean, of him inviting God to do any such thing. This dean is clearly not a man to turn your back on, as he reaches for God in the same way that the rest of us reach for an aerosol can, in his case to squirt holiness into places where the sun doesn’t shine. My advice is not to listen to him on anything, as he doesn’t speak with integrity, or even with any notion of the sanctity pertaining to divine knowledge.
Our less-than-godly dean of dubious preferences should listen instead to the worldly advice of our great poet, W H Auden. He fled the criminality then attaching to his anal preferences at home and lived in Nazi Germany for the duration, for which absence Churchill duly exiled him from the land of the winners, the land then of straight-fucking heroes. (This recalls the honest but revealing reply of that queer phenomenon, the mother-fucking homosexual, who, when asked by the Conscientious Objection Review Board what he would do if he saw a German soldier raping his mother, wistfully replied: “O, I would come between them!”) Anyway, Auden was received with gratitude and open arms and legs in the Land of the Free-and-Easy, and an heiress was laid on for the necessary Green Card application. At the marriage of assumed heterosexual convenience in St. Patrick’s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue, the young John Montagu, himself later the Poet Laureate of Ireland, approached the master and asked him why he had felt it necessary to marry a rich woman who looked for all the world like the back end of a London bus. Auden looked at him aghast, and replied: “My dear boy: Buggers can’t be choosers!”
Now the swing-both-ways Lib-dems are targeting the House of Lords, an unreformed chamber of 99.9% heterosexuals who have rarely strayed beyond the Missionary Position. One or two Lords a’leaping have admittedly had the odd away game, like Lords Jellicoe and Chatham, but at least it involved straight fucking and, in any case, was in a flat overlooking that other Lords, that alternative shrine in Marylebone. And they didn’t claim it on expenses. Most Lords, however, wouldn’t know what a Texan Two-strap was even if it came supplied with its own batteries and a book of words on how to use it. Anything to do with AC/DC has always been safely beyond them. But for this Coalition of Closet Queens, the straight-fucking Lords as we know them must also go, and be replaced by a host of elected fruits of dubious provenance, so that they can suck on the public and pubic tit well into retirement.
And now the contagion, with a Gallic difference, has spread to Paris of all places, the City of Eternal Light and Endless Pussy, the throne of Madame Claude, no less. The prostitutes are up in arms and running a blockade in La Place Pigalle, as they have been outlawed! Madame Claude would turn in her grave, even as she put the price up of putting sex back in the sizzle of the young gentlemen’s Grand Tour. Whatever next? Paris without Madame Claude is a flower in the sky, the son of a barren woman, a mance without a bum to burgle. The Paris pros, however, have got France and Mr. Hollande - aka Monsieur Flanby (French) or Plan B (English) - over a barrel, if not by the balls as well: they are not paying their taxes worth €6.0 billion pa, and France is basically bust. Welcome back, Ladies, and may your Tickle Trunks floweth over. France needs you back in the value-added business of straight fucking!
And back in the Big Apple again, I recall the old coloured guy who was the shoeshine years ago outside of Christie’s on Park Avenue, telling me he was studying Buddhism. Suitably impressed, I asked him if he believed in the transmigration of the soul, and what would he like to come back as. He thought as he polished hard and looked up to the heavens, and then announced: “I want to come back as one o’ dem Le’byuns!” Astounded that anyone would ever want to come back as a Libyan, or even as a Lib-Dem for that matter, I asked him the Devil’s Question: Why? “Because they lika pussy like I lika der pussy, and they’ve got gooooed jobs!” Quite: now that did make perfect sense, once the dime had dropped. But how about that for a line of Pure Hollywood as we once knew it!
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